


Lucy in the Maybe World

by hangingfire



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-18
Updated: 2009-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangingfire/pseuds/hangingfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lucy Saxon is alone with her memories, over the course of a night and a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucy in the Maybe World

**Author's Note:**

> New Series S3 spoilers abound; also, jossed to hell and back by "The End of Time". Songs referenced: "In the Maybe World" by Lisa Germano, and "Destroy Everything You Touch" by Ladytron. Many many thanks and much love as always to InnocentSmith, for being a marvellous beta-reader once again, and to UseTheForceEm, to whom I owe so much for the Master's characterisation.

  
_It’s the color of happy endings  
In another world beginning  
In the could time  
In the maybe world  
—Lisa Germano, "In the Maybe World"_

***

Sometimes when Lucy cannot sleep, or when she wakes in the middle of the night, she thinks about Harry. Not the witty, wickedly funny man who courted her over innumerable expensive lunches and dinners whilst she tried to talk business ("Mr Saxon, about those galleys—" "Sod the galleys, Lucy, try some of this caponata, it's divine."), nor the alien who laughed when he took her to the end of the universe and Time itself, nor the monstrous madman who betrayed her time and time again and came to her with a soft touch only when the noise in his own head became too much to bear. She thinks instead of the night the election results were announced, and how, after meetings with his assistants and advisors, he shooed them all away, asking for a quiet moment with his wife.

She pushes up the hem of her nightgown and her fingers slide between her legs as she thinks of the sharp smile on his face as he closed and locked his office door, and how he lifted her bodily off the floor and shoved her back onto his desk. Pushed her narrow pencil skirt up over her hips, scraped her thighs with his fingernails as he tore off her knickers. He slapped her hands down when she tried to unbutton her modest Chanel jacket; he liked it when she was mostly dressed. Something about the contrast._Don't make a sound_, he commanded her, and sank to his knees, caressing and exploring with his tongue and his fingers, making her shiver and draw blood from her own lip with the effort to remain silent the way he wanted it. And then when he brought her right to the edge, aching and half-mad with the effort not to scream, he stopped. Stood up, unfastened his trousers, and fell on her, biting her lips and tongue as he kissed her, forcing her to taste herself on his mouth as he thrust and shook, as they stifled each others' cries in their mouths.

And as Lucy comes, alone in her narrow bed, she remembers cities on fire and laughter and dancing and his hand cracking hard across her face. She lies awake afterward, staring at a crack in the ceiling that looks like a sawblade and she hates Harry, hates the Doctor and Jack Harkness and Martha Jones and oh, she simply hates the universe in its meaninglessness, and the fact that she's still alive and Harry's dead and that he was right, no one else would ever love her like that again.

***

A selection of newspaper and magazine headlines following "The Valiant Incident":

> PM SHOOTS US PRESIDENT, IS SHOT BY WIFE
> 
> ASSASSINATION ABOARD THE VALIANT
> 
> PROMISED "FIRST CONTACT": A RUSE?
> 
> THE LUNATIC AT DOWNING STREET
> 
> WHO WAS HAROLD SAXON?  
> (That article, in the Economist, was probably the best one out of the hundreds published on the subject, and though they didn't know it, the closest to the truth.)

  
Of course there had to be a trial. But public support for Mrs Saxon was broad. There were sardonic editorials in the Guardian and in one or two American papers contending that all a pretty blonde aristocrat had to do was to bat her lashes and the British public would fall at her feet, but such voices were decidedly in the minority. After all, the late PM had assassinated the American president in front of God and everybody, and ... well, exactly what happened after that was a bit confused. Something to do with aliens, and a fight of some kind on board the Valiant, and then according to witnesses, Mrs Saxon had seized a gun from a nearby guard and that, as they say, was all she wrote. 

> THE SECRET SAXON LOVE NEST  
> (That one got the Sun sued for libel by Lady Cole.)
> 
> PUBLIC OUTCRY OVER SAXON GUILTY VERDICT
> 
> JUDGE SAYS LENIENT SENTENCE "ONLY RIGHT THING TO DO"

  
So the leniency of her sentence was, in the end, only to be expected. House arrest, though there had been, all along, some questions about her fitness to stand trial. Lady Cole moved swiftly then, because clearly her daughter couldn't on her own. Money was paid to certain people, connections were invoked, tense lunches were held with various editors, and in short order with no fanfare at all, Lucy was quietly installed at a very exclusive, very secret, very posh sanatorium owned by the Priory Group. It was located near Grasmere and looked like nothing so much as a particularly large bed-and-breakfast; only the high walls around the property and the security guard on the drive in were a tip-off that it was anything else. It was the sort of place to which expensive celebrities went to dry out; the staff was well-known in certain circles for their discretion. It was the perfect place for Lucy Saxon, now Sarah Cole, to serve out her sentence. And, perhaps, to recover.

> LUCY SAXON: HEROINE OR MURDERESS?
> 
> LUCY SAXON: I WAS A BATTERED WIFE  
> (She'd actually never said that, not in so few words. The reporter had been so sweet, and perhaps Lucy had told him more than she meant to, more than she actually said.)
> 
> WORLD MAY NEVER KNOW WHAT HAPPENED ON BOARD THE VALIANT, SAYS CHANCELLOR

  
Lucy never protested, not once. She didn't really say much of anything once the trial was over, and even during the trial she'd only answered the Q.C.'s questions with brief, tense monosyllables. She moved into her simple, comfortable room with a lamb's mildness. She was a model patient, even if that wide, vacant stare disconcerted some of the staff. She'd seen things, they murmured amongst themselves. Who'd have thought; such a personable, charming man that Mr Saxon was, but seems he put that poor wife of his through hell. She won't talk much, anyhow. Probably just as well. There was something going on behind those blue eyes, and no one really wanted to know exactly what it was.

***

The fact is, Lucy cannot look at anyone now without wondering what had happened to them, that year. Whether they'd burned or been sliced to bits or shot, or merely starved or worked to death, or whether they'd managed to hide in fear and had lent their voices to that moment that changed everything. She wonders if, in their nightmares, they remember what it was like to die. It's not quite remorse she feels, because on a certain level she's always felt—had been taught, whether anyone realised it or not—that most people simply didn't matter. It's a kind of curiosity, and she bends it on everyone, from her own mother to the nurse who brings her breakfast and who has long since stopped trying to make more than the most cursory conversation with her.

Lucy eats her breakfast (local cage-free eggs, organic muesli, artisanal yoghurt from a nearby farm) and decides that today she is going to get her hair cut.

Harry always liked her long hair; he liked unpinning it from its neat bun and watching it fall, studying the soft curls as if analysing some complex fractal. He liked brushing it aside so he could kiss the nape of her neck. And he liked seizing hold of it, grabbing a great handful of it to haul her out of whatever chair she was sitting in, pull her to her feet and drag her to the nearest window so that she could watch another city burn.

And that's why she wants it cut. A little before lunchtime, a hairdresser is brought in and she cuts off Lucy's long blonde hair. An Eton crop, they used to call that cut. Lucy's neck feels exposed and her head feels weightless. Her father, in one of his cruel moments, might have said that her head was always weightless. She's always felt that it was sort of a pity that he died before he could learn that, though she was often slow to speak and never quite seemed to answer questions the way people wanted, she was always paying attention.

She rubs her hand over the back of her neck and smiles. "Thank you," she says to the hairdresser, who looks a bit stricken at what she's done. Lucy pats her hand reassuringly, because despite her speculations, she knows that she should at least try to be pleasant to everyone, no matter who they are. "It's all right. I like it this way." Before they sweep up her shorn tresses, she stoops and picks up a lock. She takes it away with her and when she returns to her room, she opens her dresser drawer and takes out her wedding ring. She loops the hair through the ring and puts the souvenirs away. She hums a little, one of the pop songs that Harry liked. _What you touch, do not feel, do not know what you steal, destroy everything you touch today, please destroy me this way._

Her therapist, on seeing the haircut, tells her she's making good progress. Lucy is pleased. It's nice to get praise again. There was so little of it before Harry, and so little afterward.

***

It was so much _fun_ at first. The world, the universe at their feet; Harry willing to satisfy every whim of hers, no matter how trivial or vindictive. The actual human cost was entirely unreal to her, as distant to her as farmers growing wheat for one's scones. No, more distant than that: flies that fed birds.

There were exactly two blots on her total happiness. One was the Toclafane. Despite what she knew of their origins, she'd found them vaguely whimsical at first. But their childish piping voices started getting to her before long, and the way they called her _Mrs Master_ soon made her skin crawl. The other was the Doctor. She hated the way his eyes always followed Harry whenever he was in the room, hated his patience with every moment of degradation. She particularly loathed the looks he turned on her: she was certain that it was pity, perhaps mixed with a little disgust.

One afternoon she lost her temper and asked Harry why he didn't just kill the Doctor and get it overwith. Harry flew into a furniture-smashing rage and threw her physically out of the room. He didn't apologise, nor did he even bring one of his usual peace-offerings later; the incident was glossed over and never spoken of again, though it hung in the air among the three of them whenever they were in the same room together.

And then there was Florence. Lucy liked Florence. Her parents had a villa there, where she'd spent summers growing up. But then some group of Italian rebels was uncovered, and Harry felt that the only fit response was to show them who was in charge by obliterating one of their cities. He threw a dart at a map and as luck would have it, the dart landed on Florence.

She tried to talk him out of it. If nothing else, she said, couldn't he just eliminate all the people and leave the city? He considered it, decided that no, it wouldn't be nearly as effective as wiping the place off the map. "Perhaps I'll at least have the Toclafane empty the Uffizi first. The Venus of Urbino in our bedroom, eh?" he said, and patted her cheek. She should have left it at that, but she kept after him, wheedling and sweetening her pleas with flattery. 

It didn't work. In fact, it had the opposite effect, and everything broke apart when he finally wheeled on her and struck her, snarling at her to shut up. Then he seized her by the back of the neck and dragged her to the window and forced her to watch as the city crumbled and burned.

Things only got worse after that.

***

Lucy is sitting in the garden.

"Excuse me?"

She jumps; she didn't hear the footsteps approaching.

"Sorry, I didn't—didn't mean to scare you." The speaker is a very beautiful woman whose expensively casual tracksuit only serves to accentuate the luxurious curves of her hips and breasts. She's lovely despite the weary, hollow-eyed look that one expects from the patients here, especially the ones recovering from costly drug habits; it makes her look like a Victorian consumptive. Lucy recognises her, and not just because she's a reasonably well-known actress. Lucy remembers Harry bringing her on board the Valiant. She was thinner then, her hair dirty; she'd been in hiding. Harry told Tish Jones to scrub her up and dress her properly and bring her to his room, and Tish, in abject terror as always, had done exactly that, borrowing one of Lucy's own gowns for the purpose. Lucy, locked in her dressing room, had to listen as he charmed her and then took her. In the end they always moaned for him, always begged, wanted it, no matter how afraid they were when they came on board. Maybe it was self-preservation that made them act like that. Or maybe it was just Harry's charisma.

Lucy can tell from the look in the other woman's eyes that she doesn't remember it at all, that for her, it never happened. This doesn't make it any easier for Lucy to think of anything to say to her. She'd almost like to slap the woman, but what would be the point? (What was ever the point?)

The actress looks uncomfortable under Lucy's stare, but she soldiers on. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude and I won't say anything to anyone else, but I just wanted to tell you that I—I really think it's incredible. What you did." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "I mean ... just what I heard, it sounded like ... like you were really brave." She bites her lip and looks down at the ground, then back at Lucy. "Thanks."

Lucy doesn't say anything. There's a faint giggle. It's a moment before she realises that it came from her.

The actress's eyes go wide and she takes a step back. "Um. Anyway. Sorry to bother you. Um. Be seeing you, yeah?" She wanders off, glancing back at Lucy with a nervous smile.

Lucy sighs and returns her attention to a tulip near her feet. It's fully blossomed and is just on the verge of decay. She wasn't brave, and she knows it. She was just doing as she was told, just like always.

***

"You'll do this for me," he said, pressing the gun into her hands.

They were in a shooting range he'd set up in one of the below-deck rooms on the Valiant. He'd put up a series of targets, enormous sheets of paper with a silhouette on, and marked off a spot in the middle of the chest. A bullet there, he explained, would disrupt the blood flow to and from both of his hearts. And she needed to know how to hit it.

"You've got him where you want him, Harry. He can't do anything." She knew she sounded petulant; she always did whenever the subject of the Doctor came up.

"As long as his little friends are out there, there's always danger," he said, letting the petulance slide this time. "So we need to be ready. Ready for all eventualities. And that includes," he tapped that spot on his chest, "this one."

For a moment, Lucy seriously considered pressing the muzzle of the gun right there, pulling the trigger right then. Paying him back for the women, for the bruise on her cheekbone, the fresh scar along her collarbone, for Florence, for Qatar, for Sydney, for Toronto, for Japan, for teaching her that all life and ambition comes to nothing in the end and that no victory can ever erase that knowledge. But she didn't. She lowered her head meekly and said, "I don't think I can do it."

"Yes you can. You _must_." He gripped her shoulders. "I can't lose, Lucy. I can't. Ever. And if worse comes to worst, there is only one way I can win, and this is it."

"Harry, please, can't you ask someone else?"

"No." His grip on her shoulders tightened and she whimpered a little in pain, but he ignored it. "There is no one else I trust, darling. No one I trust more. And no one will expect it from you, either." He leaned in close, forehead to forehead, but his grip didn't slacken. "So it'll be all the more surprising." He giggled.

"Harry—" she began, one last protest.

"_You'll do it,_" he said savagely, giving her a hard shake, rattling her teeth and making her see stars. His fingernails bit into her shoulders. "Or would you like me to destroy the Lake District next?" he hissed. "Or make sure you have a matching set?" A sharp jab of his finger against the scar. "You'll do it, Lucy." He released her and his entire demeanour changed, the wild rage replaced by that broad smile that had won over Britain and the world. "Now come on. Time for target practice, darling."

Her first shot went wild; the second clipped the edge of the paper; and by the time she'd emptied four clips' worth of bullets, she was hitting the marked target consistently. Harry clapped his hands with glee, took the gun and tossed it aside, then pulled her close, unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor. And she couldn't help it. She never could. No matter how angry she was at him, no matter how afraid, all he ever had to do was touch her.

"You're my Lucy. Mine." He kissed her. "And you love me, don't you?" His hand now eager between her legs. "And you know that no one will ever love you like I do. No one."

In the end, there was Harry sobbing, broken, destroyed by the avenging angel that the Doctor had become. And she realised that at last, this was it: Harry was about to lose. She was tempted to _let_ him lose. Betray him as he'd done to her, leave him hanging, leave him to whatever idea of mercy the Doctor had. Serve him right. But then there was the way each sob ripped into her heart, the way his outrage and terror made her want to run to him. There was the pain she'd felt every time she'd had to listen to him and another woman, the brush of his thumb on her cheek when she wept, his bitter isn't-that-what-you-wanted mockery whenever he found her sobbing, the end of Time and the way that what she saw there seemed to split her down the middle of her body, his hand on her hip tapping out that rhythm, his mouth on her throat, his hand in her hair, his arms around her in the dark of night...

She seized the gun and pulled the trigger as if in a dream. And then things went sort of hazy, and the only thing she was particularly aware of after that was thinking that if Harkness hadn't taken the gun from her, she'd have shot the Doctor too. Right in that place between the hearts. If he really wanted her place by Harry's side, she'd give it to him, just like that. Wasn't that the way he'd wanted it all along; wasn't that what was in the bent little mannikin's eyes? But in the end, that choice wasn't hers to make.

***

Apart from her mother's very occasional visits, Lucy has little contact with the outside world. Her friends from Roedean, she realises now, were never really friends, although they'd been happy to curry favour with her when she was Mrs Saxon. And her brother and sisters were never close to her. Never cared much for the youngest sibling, the sweet-faced dim bulb of the family, so easy to condescend to and to tease. She'd enjoyed getting back at them for that, that year. Slowly, at great length, and in considerable detail. It's one of the things that she wishes had stuck.

So between that and the fact that she's at the sanatorium under a new name, Lucy doesn't get mail very often. So she's incredibly surprised when a small box arrives for her with no return address. This arouses suspicion, of course, and the box is opened and inspected before it's finally handed off to her. But then she receives it shortly after dinner, and she takes it to her room to deal with it in private.

Inside is a cheap velvet-covered ring box. Inside that is Harry's signet.

Lucy stares at it. She takes it out of the box and it feels warm in her hand. She almost fancies that it's whispering to her, telling her that she can dance again, that there is power for the taking if she wants it, that you can always set the world on fire and it's only a matter of knowing where to place the match. She presses it to her lips and remembers Harry saying _Decimate_ and the lightning charge that ran down her spine and suddenly she wants that feeling again, the moment of victory when everything was hers at last, before she found out that it actually wasn't.

She could make it hers this time, though, couldn't she? If she really wanted it. That's what it's telling her, and she can't decide whether she wants to laugh out loud or weep or simply throw the thing away. Because it'll all come to ash in the end, one way or the other.

But maybe that's not necessarily a bad thing.

She looks out the window; it's dark outside, and she wonders how it got to be night, how much time passed while she was sitting there in contemplation. She goes to her dresser, where she winds the lock of her hair through the signet, so that now both rings are twined with the fine golden hair. She takes out her nightgown and prepares herself for bed.

Lucy lies alone in her narrow bed and feels ghosts surrounding her, ghosts of the dead and the living. They're waiting for her, she realises. Waiting for her to make a decision. To make a choice.

She closes her eyes.


End file.
